


Came Down the Mountain

by Darkmagyk



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M, Post-War for the Dawn, War for the Dawn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-21 11:48:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15557049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkmagyk/pseuds/Darkmagyk
Summary: Alayne Stone makes a name for herself during the Long Night by feeding the troops of the army of the living.But after the Dawn Breaks, her father takes to back up to the Eyrie, even as she hears that a new Stark has taken Winterfell, a young Lord named Brandon.But whatever Petyr Baelish had planned for her must change with Daenerys Targrayen flies up to them on dragon back with a offer the woman who is Sansa Stark is desperate to refuse.





	Came Down the Mountain

Her father’s carefully laid plans, cannot, it seems, stand up to monsters from Old Nan’s tales. The Knights of the Vale will not hide in their mountains when the Wall falls and the Others rush in. Therefore, Petyr Baelish must send them North with Bronze Yohn and Ser Harry not to regain the home of Sansa Stark, but to save the world.

He has to go north too, and in a fit of paranoia, he brings Alayne and her Sweetrobin with him. They hole up in a Villa in White Harbor, the town home of a Vassal of the Manderlys. They are off fighting, but they give the Lord Protector of the Vale run of their house, the left behind servants, in return for keeping them fed.

And Father does always make sure the house he is keeping gets fed first.

She is kept under guard. “It's a dangerous time, Daughter.” He tells her, with something like a glint in his eye. But she can see the turrets of New Castle from her window.

The Manderlys are stanch Stark supporters. And he fears what might happen if she were to get it into her head to run off to them.

It is not an unfounded fear.

She often gets such an idea in her head. But though the snow and the night that swirls outside her windows do not frighten her, she does not think she can make it outside first. And she fears for her Sweetrobin left behind.

He’s a whiny, sullen, sickly boy. But they are cousins, even if she makes herself forget, and she will not leave him alone if she can help it, and certainly not while the night falls around them.

So she watches as Father works to get supplies to the armies in the North, and when he loses interest, she takes over where she can.

She listens to stories of men fighting at the Wall and thinks of her half-brother and her uncle, dressed in black, protecting the realms of men. She works to get them food and furs. 

She hears tell that someone is holding Winterfell and hopes those great walls Bran use to climb hold against the armies of the dead.

She works and works and works for the North. For her home and her people, uses all of Baelish’s assets to that purpose.

Bran the Builder erected the Wall to protect Westeros from the White Walkers. And Starks have manned the Wall since then. Sansa Stark will protect the North as best she can.

Even as Baelish glares and Sweetrobin whines.

She wants people fed and warm. She cannot swing a sword. She cannot shoot an arrow. She cannot fight. But she can protect those who fight for her in her own way. And she can try and see that the rest of the people, huddled together, stay alive too.

When she hears word that the Night’s Watch has a new Lord Commander, she does not allow herself to shed the tears she is desperate to release on behalf of Jon Snow. Her only remaining brother, remaining family, bastard brave and bastard dead. She had not seen him in so long. He had looked like Father once. Grey eyes and brown hair, long, solemn, northern face. Had they looked the same in death?

Probably not, she does not know how Jon died, but he had not lost his head.

She keeps up her work, because the people of the North and the men who had fought with her brother deserve it, but she finds her interest lost.

When she hears tell of lost Targaryens and dragons, she makes note only because she thinks Sweetrobin will like the story.

Littlefinger wants to speak of it. Of Daenerys Targaryen and her triumphs in the east. Of her nephew, Rhaegar’s son, handsome and brave. Of both of them riding dragons into battle.

Targaryens stole her Aunt Lyanna. Targaryens killed her grandfather and her Uncle Brandon. She is happy that the Lannisters failed once to kill a babe, but she cannot find it in her heart to rejoice nor to help Littlefinger weave new plans with them. He speaks of Aegon Targaryen’s mysterious survival and the Golden Company, and she only manages a halfhearted comment about why the Blackfyre faithful of the Golden Company would support a Targaryen after all this time.

When dawn breaks, Littlefinger takes the court of the Lord of the Eyrie back to the Vale. He takes Lord Robert and his natural daughter, the surviving knights and lords and soldiers.

When dawn breaks, Sansa Stark is a winter ghost, pale and thin. With circles under her eyes as dark as the dye she still covers her hair with. She stands on the bow of the ship and watches White Harbor, the North, her home, fade into the distance.

Back in the South, Littlefinger frets. His Maester died, and the new one is young and boisterous, charmed by Alayne Stone, and full of new ideas for Lord Robert, and he grows stronger under the care. He wants to attend lessons, wants to learn to fight with the knights. Wants to learn to be a Lord, and prefers Alayne’s company always.

Ser Harry died in the fighting; a good thing for his lordship would surely to drift away with every day his cousin gets stronger. And Sansa Stark does not feel like playing at Alayne with him.

Word comes from the North, Winterfell has been returned to the Starks, and a lord named Brandon rules it. His regent is Howland Reed, a crannogman of all things. A choice that the Iron Throne apparently endorses fully. A loss to the Lord Protector.

Harrenhal, the great castle that was supposed to be Lord Baelish’s crowning glory has been given away by the new queen.

A queen that has dragons.

And Littlefinger, for all his cleverness, never mastered a game of dragons.

He sighs and he frets at his daughter, and Sansa hates him beneath the mask of Alayne. He does not know _this_ , but he sees, as she grows older and grows away from him. As she questions and challenges and gets all the praise for feeding the armies of the living, alone.

He frets and he worried in this new spring until a dragon flies up to the Eyrie.

The girl who leaps off its back is just a bit older than Sansa, clad in black riding leathers and red silks, her silver hair blowing in the breeze.

She could be Visenya from the legend, come to take the Vale from little King Ronnel.

Sansa whispers reminders to Sweetrobin of his courtesies. And he equips himself almost well and the queen seems almost charmed.

“I’ve met your uncle,” She says to him, “The Lord of Riverrun, and your cousin, the Lord of Winterfell. I am very happy to get to know you.”

It makes something twist inside Sansa then. That this queen knows more of her family then she does, that her family knows more of this queen.

But her brother Bran is also alive. And every time she remembers that is like light entering her.

She’d thought she’d lost all of them, Father and Mother, Robb and Arya and Rickon and Jon and Bran. But Bran is alive. A Stark sits in Winterfell. She will never see him again, but it is still the sweetest thought ever had.

Littlefinger speaks to the queen. All pleasant smiles and easy manners. He’s so very good at being a friend. Though the Queen seems interested in him, she does not seem taken with him.

And when her back is turned, it is clear Littlefinger knows it too.

She does not speak to Alayne Stone, because why would a queen speak to a bastard during formal introductions such as this.

But it is Alayne, who still serves as Lady of this keep, who shows her to her rooms.

And it Alayne who’s hand she grasps. “I have wanted to meet you for so long.” Says Queen Daenerys.

It is the first thing in a long time that Sansa does not know how to respond to. Why would some Vale Bastard take anyone’s notice?

“They speak your name through the kingdoms,” the Queen continues. “Say you fed the armies of the living, and kept the North warm during the fighting.”

“My father and I…” She starts in response. But the queens little smile kills it in her throat.

“Your father’s name is not the one sang,” the queen corrects. “At least not…” She trails off too, and glanced around the hall.

And they travel in silence the rest of the way.

“I thank you for your hospitality,” the Queen says when she is presented with Lady Lysa’s old rooms.

“We are honored to have you stay, Your Grace.”

“Just as I’m honored to meet you.” She says, “The stories spoke about your kindness, but no one ever gave justice to your beauty.” She adds, as though that is relevant. “Nor the perfect shade of blue your eyes are. I’ve never seen its equal on a woman before.”

And she closes the door.

It is an odd place to end an interaction, Sansa turns it over in her head again and again in her head that night, once she’s relayed everything but that to Littlefinger, and cannot figure out its meaning.

The next morning, the Queen announces her reason for a visit.

“I have not chosen a Warden of the East.” She says. “And one is needed.” She says it like a simple statement, but they all hear it for the challenge it is. Who here will prove themselves.

“My father was Warden of the East.” Lord Robert offers, “Before the Robert Baratheon gave it away.”

It is a clever play, Sansa thinks, pointing out something lost to the Targaryen Queen’s enemy. She’s been working with Robert on his own political acumen. Little things, here and there. She is glad to see it taking some shape. He was too old, his future role too important, to be left unlearned.

She’d met a King and a Queen at eleven, and though she’d known her courtesies by heart, she hadn’t know how to play the game. She had not even known there was a game to be played, let alone that she could prove such a valuable pawn. She refuses to let her cousin fall to the same powers.

She smiles at him now, approvingly. Petyr frowns, for he must see the wisdom in Robert’s words too.

“I have heard that story,” The Queen says. “And perhaps when you are older. But the Warden is for War, now you must be concerned with ruling the Vale, and learning all that you can for that task.”

It is a diplomatic answer, but Sweetrobin does not like it.

“My cousin Brandon isn’t much older than me.” Sweetrobin nearly cries, and Sansa grips his hand to calm him before his queen. Though he is right. Bran is four and ten to Sweetrobin’s three. “And he’s Warden of the North.”

“Lord Stark,” The Queen says, and Sansa cannot comprehend her little Bran as a great Lord. It hadn’t been so hard with Robb. He was older, stronger, forever meant to be Lord. But the Bran in her head is forever he little knight. “Is the Lord of Winterfell, and Lord Paramount of the North. But he is not the Warden of the North, for much the same reasons.”

It is a surprise to Littlefinger as much as to Sansa, which is something of a relief.

“We had not gotten that news up the Mountain,” He says, all smiles, “Who is your Warden of the North, if I may ask, Your Grace?”

“My nephew was the only one it made since for.”

And Sansa sees red. The North is for THE STARKS. How dare this Targaryen queen. She cannot imagine Bran as Lord Stark, but she cannot imagine someone other than a Stark as Warden of the North either. Bran should hold that title, just like their father.

“I hope you find what you are looking for, here.” Littlefinger offers.

“I am sure I will.” Answers the queen, and though Sansa stares at her plate, so as not to say something problematic, she cannot help but feel the women’s purple gaze on her.

But whatever the Queen’s early regard might have meant, it was lost as the Lords of the Vale file into Sweetrobin’s court to see the new queen.

Attracted by the promise of a Wardenship.

Alayne is needed everywhere to deal with these guests. And a visiting Randa and fretting Lord Robert take up the remainder of her time.

So she is as shocked as anyone when, a fortnight later, during a private dinner with just Sweetrobin and Littlefinger, the queen responded to a question about if she’d enjoyed the people she’d met with.

“Very much so, you’re so hospitable. And I’ll simply have to take your lovely daughter back to court with me.”

It takes Sansa a moment to figure out who responded with a cocked out “What.” The truth was all three of them had done so at the exact moment.

Queen Daenerys smiles at her “Lady Alayne and I have become such good friends during my time here, and I cannot bare to be parted when I leave in two days.”

The two days, Sansa files that away, she’ll need to plan a going away feast while she packs.

“I’m not sure…” Littlefinger starts, looking fearful in a way she’s never seen him, “That is, Alayne isn’t…”

“Oh, I have great need of her. And she knows the Vale so well. The House Targaryen is in great need of feminine influences such as yourself.”

Littlefinger and Sweetrobin both seem to start talking at once, but they at least have the presence of mind to be silent when the Queen raises her hand. She just looks at Sansa expectantly.

“I am honored, your grace.” Sansa says. Littlefinger’s fear has not lessened; it is that, more than anything that spurns her on. “I am happy to have a place at your court.” 

“You should start packing,” Daenerys says, giving her leave. “Lord Baelish and I have some arrangement to make.”

Sansa leaves as quickly as possible. She goes to her rooms, but she can do nothing but sit on her bed and wonder.

A queen does not offer a bastard daughter a place at court. A lower lady might, of course, choose a bastard girl as a handmaid if she’s lucky and a servant if she’s not. But a queen has better choices.

Daenerys Targaryen was raised in Essos. And Sasna has to wonder what she knows of Westeros and the rules, the role, of bastards.

She is not sure.

She doesn’t know what her role might be.

She wears simple but becoming dresses as a matter of course, but there are others in her wardrobe. Beautiful gowns of lush fabrics that she has not tried. None are of grey and white, but there are some blue that will match her eyes, some green that will go well with her hair. She packs them alone with her planer fair.

Once she’d been offered had dead Aunt’s jewelry. That, too, she does not wear. But she picks through it now. Small things, bangles and brooches without Tully trouts or Arryn falcons, enough that a rich man of low standing might give a beloved natural daughter. And perhaps a few bigger pieces. Large, ugly things that might fetch a pretty price. Enough for a boat ride to White Harbor, maybe. Then a ride across the North to Wintertown.

It is a far off fantasy as she tucks them away. She does not know what this new queens court is like, how easy it is for unattached girls to slip off. But she dreams.

When the sunsets, and she has lit her candles and packed most of her things, Littlefinger comes to her.

“She means you as a hostage.” Are the first words out of his mouth and they send a shiver right down her spine. “She doesn’t trust me, for some reason, and she means to hold you so she might have me do whenever it pleases.”

“How silly of her,” She says. And he actually frowns at that.

“You do not think I’d do what I needed to protect you, Daughter?” He asks. And the truth is, she does believe he will work to protect his interests in her, whatever they may be. But protect _her_. No.

“I meant,” She says sweetly, “that she thinks keeping me close will compel you to listen to her, and not her, to listen to me, about you.”

“You are a smart one,” He says, “And her court has an incredibly large turn over. I do not think you shall be recognized.” He steps too close and brushes a lock of inky hair. “Best to be on guard, regardless.”

He mummers something about accounts and the allowance he will provide for her courtly upkeep. She never got any better with sums; she will have to be careful with that.

He tries to weaves plans at her, but it is clear he is at something of a lose. He wants her to write often of anything she can learn.

She thinks of the jewels she has hidden away. A home in the North. A living brother, with identical eyes, who might recognize her.

After Littlefinger leaves, it is those thought that get her to sleep that night.

The next two days are a flurry of activity. She wishes her Sweetrobin goodbye, she plans a going away feast, she makes sure the Queen and her little entourage are all packed up.

It is so much, and then it is over. The Queen regains her mount and flies away, and Sansa and her party leave the mountain, destined for a Gulltown port.

Littlefinger sent knights with them, at least as far as the ship, so she does not get a chance to escape here. Her trunk is packed too tightly away. And eyes follow her. 

She’ll figure something, even if it has to wait until she gets to King’s Landing.

Back to King’s Landing.

She survived once, she tells herself as she boards, she’ll do it again. Then she’ll escape.

It is a rough journey by sea. And when they get to King’s Landing, the sky is dark and she’s exhausted.

There is not much of a welcoming party, but why would there be for the Queen’s servants and a Vale Bastard.

Still, a Steward greets her when they arrive at the Red Keep, offering apologies that the Queen is not here to see her.

She’s barely awake enough to remember her proper courtesies so she doesn’t mind at all. And she’s taken through the keep and to her new rooms, where a maid waits to help her undress, and she falls into bed.

She wakes up in confusion.

Her room is not just nice it is positively luxurious. The hangings are rich velvet and silks. The bed is large and plush. The moldings silver. The wardrobe large. A quick inspection shows her chamber even included a solar and a balcony.

A bastard daughter of a mere lord protector should not have been given such a thing, and she knew that Littlefinger had not provided her with means of such a living.

And then her maids introduce themselves. Four of them, two ladies maids and two for her chamber, though Littlefinger had been very clear that her allowance only covered one servant, and she’d meant to find a girl to do the basic cleaning.

But these maids, who she does not know, introduce. They curtsey and call her m’lady. And seem so eager to begin unpacking her things, though their faces fall when they see that she only has the one trunk.

“I didn’t engage you.” She says, before they actually start their work.

Jenny, the leader of the little band, frowns, “Have we displeased you already m’lady?”

“No. Of course not. I just only arrived last night, and I have not had a chance to engage a maid. I must admit to being a bit confused.”

The woman sighs with relief. “Yes, m’lady, we were engaged by the Royal Steward and Lady Dayne, on your behalf. Lady Dayne was very specific that we were to see you as soon as you arrived. And she promised to visit you herself, once she returned to court.”

Sansa knows nothing of a Lady Dayne. She knows the Lord Dayne of High Hermitage has a wife. But she has never met the woman. Edric Dayne is Lord of Starfall is young and unmarried last she had heard.

Why any Lady Dayne would help her engage maids is beyond her. And the royal steward. The Queen should not be seeing to her attendance as such.

She has not felt this lost in a very long time. She has spent the last seven years alive by finding the role those around her wished her to fill, and filling it. But what is this: back at court, Petyr Baelish’s bastard daughter kept hostage for his behavior, but in the rooms for a high lady, already given things for from noble women and the queen herself.

Her maids twitter around, unpacking her things, looking around her rooms. Jenny stands by her side, directing and asking after her needs.

She gave route responses, and watched as the girls went through her trunk in disappointment. Finding her only a few fancy gowns and smatterings of jewels.

“I can order a dressmaker,” Jenny offers, “So you can get more gowns.”

“No, no,” She starts and then considers it, “Not yet, I’ll make due for now.” Until she knew what was needed. She could always write to Littlefinger for more money later, spin tales of a queen enchanted. But now it would not do for a bastard girl to try and rise to far above her station.

When they finish unpacking Jenny orders a bath and a morning meal, only then telling her that the queen meant to come and visit.

The tizzy that whips up, in Sansa and the other woman, is palpable.

They clean her and dress her and do her hair in whatever the latest King’s Landing fashion is.

Courtesies are a lady’s armor. And Sansa’s plate is strong, even under Alayne’s demure smile and plain gown.

Queen Daenerys seems pleased with her. And yet.

When she had been Cersei’s prisoner, she had still had something like free range of the castle. But Queen Daenerys, with some excuse of her father, says she’s to mostly be confined to her rooms. She’ll not be expected at court, and she’ll be offered every comfort during her confinement, but confinement she will have.

She forces herself to breath thought the tightness in her throat and to smile against the fear that threatens to overtake her face.

No wonder she has so many maids.

They are her only company, save for the Queen, who comes in nearly every day, first just to chat, but eventually for lessons.

“I’ve never had a chance to learn to sew,” She explains, “And I admire your work so. It will give us a chance to become better acquainted.”

The Queen is very bad at it, but she’s diligent if not enthusiastic, and she figures out a simple pattern without too much trouble.

And they move on to more complex embroidery just to give Sansa something new to look at.

“I have a confession to make,” The queen said, a month into Alayne Stone’s solitary stay. “The real reason I invited you here.”

Sansa keeps her face blank. She’s a hostage for Petyr Baelish's good behavior. And she doesn’t need the Queen’s sorrowful confession. Daenerys has grown fond of her during their sewing lessons and chats. Sansa wonders what Petyr has done, and how bad the Queen feels about Alayne’s fate.

“My nephew…” She trails off with an annoyed sigh.

And Sansa’s blank mask can’t help but fall into a frown a little. What does she know about the Queen’s nephew? Prince Aegon, Rhaegar’s rescued son. He grew up in the east, like the Queen but not with her, Littlefinger had said, and would have his aunt’s claim save for the dragons. He was her heir and Prince of Dragonstone instead of the other way around. He was a hero in the war. And he was rewarded with the Wardenship of the North that should have been Bran’s.

The Queen shook her head, and then smiled, “My nephew needs a woman.”

And she feels her eyes go wide in shock before she can stop them.

To be a prince’s mistress?

 _That_ is what the Queen brought a bastard girl from the Vale to King’s Landing for?

“There must be hundreds of women in this keep who would happily warm the prince’s bed.” She says. Because there must be. Women of higher birth then the bastard Alayne Stone. Women of better connections then the Strange Bedfellows of the Eyrie.

The Queen sighs again, “Of that there is no doubt. Willing women is not the problem.” And she tosses her badly sewn dragon aside and sinks back into the chair.

“I know he is not opposed to the company of women,” She explained, “I have spoken to his friends of it. I know of his youthful fancies and his young dalliance even. But all his servants and guards swear he has had no one since. He does not keep a mistress, he does not trifle with the chambermaids, he does not even visit brothels in town.”

That sounds about as unprincely as anything Sansa has ever heard, and it intrigues her on some deep level.

“Surely you can arrange a match…”

“He is so resistant to it all,” The Queen closes her eyes, covering her face with a graceful hand, “I wish him to be happy in marriage. And more than that, I need him to have heirs.”

“What would you have me do?” Alayne asks. She is not sure she wants to. She had once thought to wed a prince, and then was told she would still have to bed him. But this was something else entirely.

“You are my last hope.” the Queen said. “The last woman I might be able to entice him with.”

She her insides turn to ice. Seduce the crown prince so he might be willing to wed some fine lady.

“Your Grace,” Sansa starts, trying to think of her words carefully, “I am a maiden.” It was as good a place as any to start, she supposed. Daenerys nodded as though this was expected. Though a bastard girl of her age could just as easily not have been, “I would do anything to help the crown, of course, but I do not know if I could seduce the Prince.”

She’d bewitched Harry once, but with girlish charms and dreams of heroic marriage. This is different, leading a man to her, and then to another’s marriage bed.

The Queen let out a little laugh, “Oh no,” She agrees, “I wouldn’t have that. The court is lousy with seductresses. And I’ve certainly had a few of them try. I mean for you to entice him into marriage. The kingdom is not short of women who willingly marry him, but I find myself very bereft of women he is willing to married.”

“But I am a bastard.” She cannot stop herself from saying. A bastard daughter of a lowly house. Such a person is not meant for a prince, even if once upon a time Sansa Stark had been.

“That, _Lady Alayne_ ,” Something sounds off in the Queen’s voice as she says the name, “Is part of your appeal, I hope.”

Men have all kinds of perverse desires, she knew that from Littlefinger and his brothels, and a bastard girl, born of lust and sin would no doubt be one of those. But what men desire in their bedchambers and what they want in wives were different. And why a prince would have any desire for a bastard bride was beyond her.

“His cousins are trying to help me,” The Queen explains. “And the elder one, she was particularly keen on the fact that you were a bastard.” His cousin. Aegon Targaryen’s cousins would be from Dorne, where the rules for bastards were different. More than that, his only living cousins would have been, she thought, the few remaining Sand Snakes. Bastard daughters of his Uncle Oberyn.

“And his younger cousin,” She smiles softly, “Well, regardless, they are as eager to see him married as me.”

“It is a wonder Lady Dayne did not marry him herself when it was an option.” Sansa offers.

“I had hoped much the same.” the Queen says, “It would have solved so many of my problems. But she was already in love with Lord Dayne by then, and he’s so doting on the Lady, I do not think it would have occurred to him to stand in the way. And she’d have made a poor princess.”

Sansa would make an excellent princess. She knows that in her bones.

“But you would make an excellent princess,” The Queen says, “I saw it in the Vale. You can keep a great castle. And there is much about you my nephew will find pleasing I think, and Lady Dayne thinks so too.”

Every time the Queen visits her after that, points out a new aspect of Alayne that the Prince will find pleasing.

Her beauty is the first listed. His history says he likes girls with hair like her’s, and Sansa reminds herself to order more dye at the first opportunity.

The second is her service in the War for the Dawn. Her efforts in the North were apparently already known to him, the Prince was somewhat awed by her abilities. “He cares so much for the North.” The Queen explained.

That is another thing. Her time in White Harbor made her no stranger to the land he is Warden of, and apparently, an appreciation of the North is particularly important.

 _He should not be Warden_. She thinks bitterly behind her smile. This half Donish half Targaryen man, raised in the East, what does he know of her home.

The Queen talks about his interest in the Vale the next day. But the focus on the North brought back another anxiety.

Aegon Targaryen is the son of Elia Martell and Prince Rhaegar. The same Prince Rhaegar who ran off with her Aunt Lyanna. A fake bastard who is really a Stark daughter will not go over well.

And what can she want to do with him. His grandfather had been a Mad King. Had murdered _her_ grandfather and her uncle Brandon. _His_ father had stolen off with her aunt. Lord Eddard never talked about that war, but that loss had seemed to hover around the halls of Winterfell in her youth.

She’s had one enemy prince as a betrothed before. Why should she want another one.

And as of yet, no one has mentioned anything about her Father, and what Petyr Baelish’s take on all of this might be.

She feels lost, alone, and trapped once again in the Red Keep. The large jewels sit heavy in her chest.

And so, after she chats with the Queen about how handsome and heroic the silver haired prince is, she plots her own escape.

Lady Dayne is coming back to court. She’s the prince’s cousins and a favorite of the Queens, and so the court is a twitter about it.

Lady Dayne is coming to court, and so Alayne Stone is leaving.

The day before the arrival, she dresses in her plainest dress, and wears an extra set of stockings beneath it. It’s warm in King’s Landing, but she knows it will not be so when she gets North. She stows the biggest jewels in her purse, but hides an emerald bracelet in her boot, just in case.

She has been talking up her love of the Godswood. To her maids and the Queen. It is an easy thing, the Vale is short on trees, and she has missed the feel of it, so she simply tells the truth, though Alayne Stone spent much of her youth in the care of the Faith.

The Queen has encouraged it before. Says her nephew will enjoy it.

So Alayne goes to the Godswood, with her thickest cloak pulled over her head, and Alayne slips out of the Godswood and out of the keep. Not out of a secret passage, but out of a servant’s entrance that she had scoped out early.

She keeps her eyes low and her hood drawn and she makes her way to the harbor.

It costs her an ugly ruby and gold necklace to get passage on a ship bound to White Harbor. The captain, a small man with a pointed rat’s face, clever eyes, and an eastern accent, can see the illicitness in her request. Perhaps a highborn girl escaping an unwanted marriage or perhaps a maid who’s stolen her ladies jewels. But the look of glittering rubies in the sun keep him from asking questions. And she only wants to know if they have space for her, and a promise that their first stop is White Harbor, not Gulltown.

She hides in her little room. She sleeps little and thinks of Winterfell and her little brother.

She nearly cries when she steps back onto the shores of White Harbor.

This is the land of the First men. This is the place of the Old Gods. This is the home of the Starks.

She sells another one of the necklaces. Pearls and gold, much too large for her to ever think of wearing. She fills her purse with gold and silver. And buys herself a night in a tavern. The ale is disgusting, the stew warm, and sinks to sleep in a bedchamber that is cold and perfect.

In the morning, she manages to buy herself another dress, some food, a warmer cloak, and a horse.

And Sansa Stark, alone in the world, sets off on the road home.

When she gets to Wintertown, she knows she looks a fright. She’s seen herself in a little stream half a day back. The weight she’d gained since the rushing of spring started to slip from her in her confinement, and the month’s trek across the north had brought her back to just a bit more than skin and bones. Her hair, was a messy braid, and the top two inches gave way to her natural copper.

Still, she knew her smile is sweet and little woman running the Wintertown Inn is clearly taken with her pathetic appearance when she pays for her room. The old woman's eyes linger as she is taken up to her room, and told that supper will be served most of the evening, so to come down when she is ready.

She washes up as best she can the little bowl in her room. But mostly she just sits on the bed, and soaks in the North.

She still has to get into the castle. She still has to convince a brother who has not seen her in seven years that she is Sansa Stark, lost sister, and not some pretender.

But she is in the heart of the North now. And from her little window, she can see the gates and towers of Winterfell.

The promise of a decent meal takes her back down to the hall.

It is surprisingly loud and boisterous and the little serving boy who gave brings her soup and fresh bread tells her it is because of the Prince.

Apparently confirming all of Daenerys’s claims, the Prince comes to this Inn to drink because the woman who runs it won’t have whores about, and men who wish to keep the Prince’s favor don’t go whoring in his presence.

She sees no sign of the Prince among the excitedly drinking men. No black silk or red velvet sticks out. And the palest hair she spots is a balding man with sandy curls speckled with grey.

She does spot the innkeeper staring at her a few times. But such is the risk of a young woman traveling alone.

The taste of proper Northern food, not the rations they’d survived on in White Harbor during the War, is a balm to her soul. 

And between it and the days ride and the comfortable bed that waits her, she is more than ready for a nights sleep.

But almost as soon as she closes her door, there's a knock on it. She stifles a yawn before opening it again.

Beyond it stands the little woman who ran the inn, a look of barely held apprehension on her face.

She is not alone.

In Sansa’s doorway stands a ghost of all the Starks who came before. A thousand men with long solemn faces and dark grey eyes, like the line of kings in the crypts.

But it is no stone man before her. It is no ghost.

“Jon,” She whispers. At the same moment as he cries “Sansa.”

No one has called her by her names in so very long.

She’s kept her mask on for so long. Courtesy is a Lady’s armor. She has honed her steel as sharp as any blade her brothers might have ever swung.

But Jon Snow has said her name.

Sansa can do nothing but weep in response. She can do nothing but throw herself into his arms.

He is real flesh and blood. Her flesh and blood. As strong and solid at their father had once been.

She finds herself sobbing into his chest on the bed in her room. His arms wrapped around her, her hands clutching at the back of his tunic.

She has not felt safe since she was a girl and her father’s head rolled. But now, she feels it, with Jon all around her.

He strokes her back and lays soft kisses on her hair and forehead. He whispers to her. Not sweet nothings but everythings. That he loves her. That they all love her. That he’s so happy she’s safe. That he’s dreamed of her being found. He tells her to cry as much as she needs. That he’s here, now, and he will protect her. That he thought she was dead, but thank the gods, the old gods, his gods and Father’s, that she is not.

Sansa thought he was dead too. Had heard nearly the entire Watch was gone. But she can feel him under her hands, solid and true. He’s warm. His heart beats a steady rhythm.

His shirt soaks up her tears, and he just keeps her close.

When her sobs have become little more than dry retches, he pulls back, just a bit, so he can look at her face. His fingers, callused through swordplay, trace the hollow of her cheeks.

He still looks like Father. Younger than Sansa had ever known him, but like Eddard Stark must have looked, coming back from the Rebellion that stole his sister. Jon has scars across his face now, one over his eye, one on his forehead, to slicing parallel down his left cheek. Gashes that must have been painful once, but have healed over long ago. They match him. Give his noble features a darkly handsome edge.

He manages to look away from her, and she follows his line of sight out the window. Night is settling over Winterfell.

“We should get home.” He says. And the very thought of it, of walking through the gates of Winterfell, that she left at eleven, a haughty little girl ready to be a princess, is so much. She feels herself frozen at the thought.

But she has Jon with her. Bastard brave and alive.

He packs up her single satchel and with his arm around her shoulders, walks her out.

On the way home, he tells her that the Innkeeper has been there since their grandparents wed, and recognized her almost as soon as Jon had. A blessing, he tells her, a great wish.

As they walk through the main gate, he whispers that much has changed in their home. It was broken and burned by Boltons, laid siege to by monsters, and only recently rebuilt with the help of the Dragon Queen. Most of those who served under Lord Eddard are gone. But in the low light of the stars and guard’s torches, it looks the same.

He tells her the Bran, nearly a man, but not quite, it most likely asleep, but he cannot wait for her to see him tomorrow. Him the bannermen who are staying, the entire household. Everyone will find only joy in the return of a wolf maiden. Something about that catches her ears, but the light is too low as he leads her into the great keep for her to take in the full look on his face.

He leads her to a room that was not hers.

“There isn’t anything set up for you now, My Lady.” He says, and it's the first time he’s addressed her as such. “But you can stay here for tonight. I don’t think there are many spare lady’s maids hanging around, but I can go see if there's a woman about to help you with your clothes.”

“I can do all these laces myself.” She promises, around a yawn. He frowns at her once, and she thinks he’s taking in her appearance. It much be so far from any image he might have had of her before.

“I’ll see what I can find in the morning.” He says. Then walks to her, grasps her shoulders almost too tightly in either hand, and kisses her forehead. “I am so so so glad.” He whispers. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” She agrees, and then wiggles herself out of her clock, her dress, her boots and stockings.

She’s grimy from traveling, form not having a proper was in nearly two months. Her hair's been an absolutely disaster since she left King’s Landing.

Her dresses are both dirty beyond any kind of priority.

It does not matter.

She is home.

She is within the walls of Winterfell, where Starks are strongest.

Bran and Jon are here too.

She feels like she could take on all the Others again.

She crawls into bed. And as she snuggles into the furs and the cushions, she realizes that this is Jon’s room. The bed smells like him.

Like the him in her memories, a boy playing Aemon the Dragonknight or Daeron the Young Dragon to her maiden. And like the Jon who had held her close, this evening.

It is like he’s all around her still. And it is the best way to find sweet dreams.

She wakes to the sound of movement in the outer chamber.

She does not have a robe, and her night clothes is only her shift, thin from long use, but she creeps to the door anyway, and swings it open as quietly as she can manage.

Three women are preparing a bath. She does not know the two who are arranging the soap and water, but the oldest of them she recognizes. She use to be one of the maids assigned to Arya and Sansa when they were very small.

She also seems to have noticed the noise. And when she turns to the door Sansa is glancing out of, her look is nearly rapturous.

“Lady Sansa,” She says, taking in Sansa’s appearance with heavy concen. “We’re preparing a bath for you.”

“Thank you, Gwyn.” Sansa says back.

“We don’t have many fine soaps or oils, M’lady.” Gwyn says, “There are no other great ladies here, but the Prince’s steward did give me some soaps he brought from the south.”

Sansa’s thanks, or assurance that she didn’t need anything fine, dies on her lips. “The Prince,” She mutters. Because the Targaryen Prince is the Warden of the North, and he must be here. In her home.

Gwyn gives her a sympathetic look, “I know it takes a bit to get you to, M’Lady. But I think overall it is for the best. And the Prince was very specific in that we were to offer you all the comforts we could.”

“Has Jon told everyone I’m here?” Sansa asks as one of the other girls removed her slip.

“Oh no,” Gwyn promises, “He was very specific that it's not to get around. He said he does not wish to overwhelm you, and he means it to be a surprise for Lord Stark.” 

_But he’s told the Prince_ , Sansa did not say as she climbed into the tube.

The soap she is provided does have a more masculine scent to it. Though, it looks unused.

When one of the maids reaches for her hair, Sansa tells her not to bother. The dye she’s been using isn’t great for her hair without proper upkeep, and she’d dropped off some of the work in King’s Landing and the rest in her journey north. That will be a fight for another day, but she wraps the stiff braid around her head for now, and cleans the grime from her skin.

When she’s done. The maids wrap her in fresh linens and then Gwyn presents her with a dress. It's a

Beatiful purple lambs wool with delicate white embroidery all around its edges.

“Lady Dayne left the gown behind.” Gwyn says in answer to Sansa’s question as she slips on new small clothes and a clean shift that is not her own. Purple and white are Dayne colors. “I know they aren’t the colors of your house, m’lady, but there are no other dresses suitable save for the ones that Lady Dayne didn’t like.”

Sansa cannot imagine why Lady Dayne would not like this dress, nor why that would mean she’d leave it at Winterfell, but Sansa appreciates it all the same.

When she is dressed fully, she requests breakfast and the maids depart. The door barely closes behind them before there is another knock at it.

Sansa calls for entry because she cannot be bothered, and is relieved when its only Jon. ‘

“How are you?” He asks, without any preamble.

“Good,” She says, because she’s had a bath and she’s in fresh clothing and she’s back at home in Winterfell where her brother rules, even if Targaryen princes are snooping about.

“You look pretty,” Jon lies, taking her in. She merely looks clean, she knows she is sunken and off color. But it is nice of him to say all the same. And his smile is as genuine as they come. “I’m glad they found a proper gown for you.”

“It would be fine, regardless,” She promises him.

“Of course it wouldn’t, You are a Lady of House Stark and should be clothed appropriately. I’m sure when Bran sees you home, he’ll send for all sorts of dress makers, so you can dress how you won’t instead of however you had to dress wherever you were before.”

“The Vale,” She says dismissively, “But Bran, Bran’s the Lord of Winterfell, tell me about that.”

Jon’s face lights up, “Yes,” He agrees. “Bran, well, Bran’s everything you remember. He’s still young, of course, but he’ll be a great lord when he reaches his majority, everyone knows it.” And Jon sounds as pleased as can be about that. Mother use to worry, Sansa knew that Jon had some designs on their rights. But Sansa always knew such things were laughable. He sounds so proud of their brother. “As good as f…your Father. 

Jon smiles again, “You’ll be able to see Bran at dinner. I was going to join him and Lord Reed. And you’ll be our surprise guest.”

“Assuming he recognizes me.” She says, she tugs at a piece of hair. Most of the length had broken off, but the lock the fell to her nose turned brown right where it met her eyes.

Jon reaches out and brushes the hair from her face, and she has to fight from leaning into the touch as he brought it behind her ear.

He seems to notice, and pulls her to him. She buries her face in his chest, and into her ear, he whispers, “Of course he’ll know you. How could he not, you look the same.”

She snorts into his chest, and she pulls back to give him a disbelieving look. “Except for the fact that I’m a sickly, hideous mess.” She lets out a half sort of laugh, nothing like the pretty thing she had once perfected, and had been using just weeks ago with the Queen. “He was seven the last time he saw me, if he remembers me at all, it will probably be as his pretty sister, and look at me now.”

“You are still beautiful,” Jon says, and he sounds like he means it.

“What does a man who spent his youth at the Wall know of a woman’s beauty?” She teases.

“You’d be surprised,” he says back, but the sparkle has left his eye, so she does not inquire further. Though she is desperate to know. She was told her became Lord Commander, but he is certainly not now. And it was a post he lost even before the disbanding of the Watch.

His grey gaze is intent upon her, “Though if you don’t like it, why did you color your hair?”

“I was a wanted criminal, for a while,” She says, dryly, its almost an afterthought these days. “I was hiding in the Vale, I used the name Alayne and colored my hair. I could not keep it up on my journey home.” She knows not to mention her trip to King’s Landing and the Dragon Queen. Prince Aegon is within Winterfell’s walls right now, and she will not bring herself to his attention a mere day after her return.

“You were with your cousin?” He chokes out on the last word, because it would be her cousin via her mother, perhaps, and Lady Catelyn was never kind to Jon.

She just nods. “I was part of his court at the Eyrie,” She says, “He did not know we were cousins.” Jon frowns at that, and looks like he wants to say something else, but their is a knock at the door, her maids with her breakfast.

Jon takes his leave then, promising to return at lunch, and that better rooms were being prepared.

She’s left alone after her meal, and wonders around Jon’s solar. She wonders what he does all day. Bran is Lord, obviously, and Lord Reed of all people is his Regent until his majority. It makes more sense for a vassal then for a bastard brother, she supposes. Surely, the Manderlys would love for such a prime position, or the Karstarks or the Umbers

She’ll ask about it later. She knows Lord Reed was a friend of her father, at least.

But what is Jon’s place here. If he was Master at Arms or Castellan, shouldn’t he be in those quarters. These ones are well within the family wing of the Keep.

She shakes her head, its a silly thought. Jon’s job is immaterial. He’s Bran’s older brother, Of course he’s here, in the heart of the family.

She’s been a bastard too long herself to begrudge him this.

She watches a raven fly across the northern sky out the window and wonders at her life now.

She’ll never have to go back to court, at least, and hopefully she can find some pretty words to still the Dragon Queen’s wrath. Or at least redirect it right at Littlefinger.

And at some point she should contact Robin and explain herself. Perhaps she’ll make a suggestion to Bran, that the boys start up a correspondence. Orphaned boy lord's, it only makes sense for them to become friends.

The Dragon Prince will not want a Stark liar for a bride. And she’s such a worn out thing besides now. But Bran is young, and probably in need of alliances, and here she is.

It's not a pleasant thought.

She tries not to dwell on in until Jon returns at midday. He’s changed clothes, instead of the rough wool and brown leather from the morning, he’s in black lamb’s wool, well-tailored to his body. He’s grown much, he’s past twenty now, and his board chest and strong jaw prove it. But his eyes are the same, and he stares at her intently, even as he guides her to her newly prepared room.

It took her several minutes to realize they had once belonged to her mother, but when she expresses as much to Jon, he shook his head.

“There is no other Lady of Winterfell,” He says, “And it seems the room most fitting for you.”

Lunch is waiting for them. Venison and vegetables stew brewed slow and hearty in the proper northern way.

“We went on a hunt last week,” Jon explains, “And Bran needs the fun, I fear. He’s got so much responsibility and he shoulders it all so well, but he’s still just a boy. Most people forget, I think. So I like to take them on hunts when I can.”

“Bran can hunt?” Sansa asks.

“With special seating and his wolf.” Jon smiles, “The master of arms wants to see if he can manage something like a joust. But he’s not much interested. We hope there aren’t any wars soon, and he has not use for tourneys, anymore.”

Sansa laughs, such a comment from her little brother inspiring a kinship “I saw several tourneys in the Vale,” She tells Jon, “And I do not think Bran is wrong to dismiss them.”

Jon gives her a long, searching look, and she thinks he must be comparing the Sansa from childhood, to the one before him now. He and Robb had once played at tourney knights, and taken turns crowning Sansa queen of love and beauty.

But then he speaks, “You said, this morning, that in the Vale, you used the name Alayne.”

She nods. He bites his lip. “Not, forgive me, My Lady, but not Alayne Stone?”

“Yes,” Sansa nods, the name so familiar and yet slightly painful coming from Jon’s mouth. It should be banned in the North.

“The Alayne Stone who arranged for the food and fur supplies.” Jon says, and he is not really whispering, but the reverence in his voice gives it an air like quality, like if he says it to firmly, it will disappear.

She nods again.

Sansa has seen men look at her with lust and malice, with pity and scorn, with concern and confusion. She’s seen men look at her with all of those at once.

She’s also known Jon Snow his entire life, and, despite the seven years of separation, seen many many expressions on his face.

She does not know the one that breaks out now from his or anyone else's face.

Something like awe, maybe, but more. A little respect perhaps, which might make some sense, but then something like devotion or longing, which do not.

“We used to toast to you, sometimes.” Jon says, “When we has the strength and the numbers. We would toast to the lovely Alayne Stone, and her efforts to keep us previsioned. No one I met knew anything about you, but most of them were half in love with you anyway.”

“I remembered you were out there, I wanted you to be full and warm.” she tells him, “And the Starks have protected the North since the age of the First Men, they helped defeat the last long night as well. I want to do my part, what little I could.”

“It wasn’t little,” Jon says, grasping her hand, “Please, Sansa, don’t ever thing it was little.”

There seems to be little else to say. The specter of Alayne Stone hangs over the meal, and Jon looks at Sansa with new eyes.

They are not unhappy.

He takes his leave of her with a kiss on the hand and an imploring of his thanks. It is very gallant. She is not sure what to do with it in relations to Jon when he’s not playing as some great knight from a song.

The chambers that were once her mothers are different. Winterfell was sacked and burned. It held during the long night, and then had to been rebuilt by a boy and a crannogman and Jon, who had spent so little time here.

The furniture that is recognizable has clearly suffered damage and been repaired. The wardrobe and vanity are empty beyond the soap and oil the Prince has given her.

It is much the same when she looks out the high window into the courtyard. When she was examining the inside, she could hear the familiar sounds of Winterfell working, but when she glances down, she sees no familiar heads working away.

One of the maids helping Gwyn comes in, arms laden with fabric. She manages an impressive courtesy around her bundle.

“I’m sorry, M’lady,” She says, as she lays the things on the bed so she might show Sansa, “We were not able to find any fine small clothes befitting you yet, and as we aren’t to tell anyone of your arrival, and it is the sort of thing a lady likes to choose for herself, I did not put in an order yet, but I did find these.” She explains, showing the collection of linens that look fine enough to Sansa, before moving them into the wardrobe. “Gwyn sent me into Wintertown this morning to see about other clothes. I was able to find you several shifts, they aren’t silk, but the linen is very nice, and I got enough that we should be able to keep you clean until more suitable things can be ordered.” She shows them off to Sansa, they were nicer than the one she was presented this morning, but very much what Alayne, the bastard daughter of a very wealthy man, had worn on a day-to-day basis. She smiles in encouragement. “And I also was able to get a new pair of stockings as well.” She seems pleased with them, “And I do think they are somewhat finer.” She packs them away with the small clothes.

And then nearly all the white cloth is off the bed, and Sansa sees gowns. “The rest of the dresses Lady Dayne left.” The maid says excitedly. “Mostly gowns for the evenings, I admit, but several day dresses as well. Clothing properly fit for you, m’lady.”

Lady Dayne, again. Sansa ran her hands over them. They were mostly purple and white as are the colors of House Dayne. Some of them have diamonds or amethyst sew at the collar or the waist, and the embroidery is often a sword and star of the sigil, or pretty Dorneish flowers. They are trimmed with lace and ribbons. They are dainty and ladylike things. All of them are well made, and fine fabrics.

“Lady Dayne left these?” Sansa asks, because they are beautiful, what girl in her right mind would forget them. _Arya_. The thought comes, with a stab to her heart and that she pushes away.

“When she was married she was given, I should think, three or four new wardrobe. By her husband, by the Prince, by the Queen, by guests. I suspect she left the ones she didn’t much like behind.” She eyes Sansa and then the pile. “Most of these should fit, M’lady, more or less.”

And with Sansa’s leave she hung them up.

She requests a needle and thread, and spends the afternoon after the little fashion show working blue roses onto the shift that was brought for her to sleep in, for nothing more than something to do.

When Jon comes to pick her up for super, he blinks owlishly at the line of flowers on the neck for a long moment.

“Winter Roses.” He says.

She smiles. “I do love them.”

“Me too,” He agrees. He’s wearing the same nice clothing as at lunch, but now he’s added, onto the black, a red leather sword belt. From it hangs his steal, and the strange pommel. A white wolf’s head, with glinting red eyes. Ghost, she’s sure, his wolf. But an interesting adornment. All the same.

He holds out his hand to her, and walks not to the Lord’s chamber, but the Solar that Father used to conduct business. The way is clear of people.

“I want to properly butter them up,” He says with an uncharacteristic grin. “Let me go in first, and I’ll announce you.”

“I’ve a surprise for you,” she can hear him say as he practically bounds into the room without even a knock. She’s not heard him so happy in a decade. There is a pause and then, “Why do you look so glum.”

The voice that responds doesn’t sound like the Bran in her head, a little boy, with a child’s voice. This is a man’s voice, accent rougher then her father’s or Jon’s. Maybe like visiting mountain clan lords, educated enough, but like something from the edge of civilization. “Remember when you said that you wanted to marry Alayne Stone, if we could find her.”

Sansa blush in the empty hallway, what?

“Yes,” Jon grumbles, “I was told, by all of you, that it was a fool's errand, and you were right.”

“No, no,” Bran says, “We did find her. She was in the Vale. I mean, we knew that, because Stone, but I saw some things and your Aunt and Arya checked some things and…”

“She was in your Cousin Robert’s court in the Vale,” Jon cuts him off, “I know, we…”

“No, Jon, you don’t understand,” And she can hear the inflections in Bran’s voice now, with a larger sample, and it is like when he was a child. “It was Sansa.” How does Bran know...and he said Arya, if the rest of them can be alive...but where is she?

“Bran…” Jon tries again, to no avail.

“Your Aunt went to get her and…”

“Bran, be quiet.” Jon’s words are not a request. They are an order, barked by a man use to being followed. She’s never heard Jon use such a voice. Never heard it from Robb or Theon either. Judging by the silence that follows, the lord of Winterfell has headed the command.

The door swings open again, and he ushers her inside with a wave of his arm to indicate haste.

Its Father’s solar, but it's not, just like Mother’s chambers or the Winterfell courtyard. So similar, so different.

She knows Bran in an instant, and that is a relief. He’s grown into a man, really, he’s sitting in a high back chair with large wheels. He wore a grey doublet, and a wolf-covered blanket hid his legs from view. His red hair is worn short and a scruffy sort of stubble covers his chin. And when his blue eyes land on her, they shine with recognitions.

“Sansa.” He breathes, and the fact that he knows her is a relief.

There is a man next to him. In his forties, but tired. He’s small, his body looking more in line with Bran’s then Jon’s, and there are wrinkles beginning to form around his shrewd eyes. He bows from where he is already standing.

“Lady Sansa,” He says in greeting. But Bran is just shaking his head, looking at a rolled up bit of paper on the table, a Raven message.

“You’re supposed to be in King’s Landing,” He says, and looks almost confused that she is not.

Jon not said anything about Bran not remembering the past. Could he think it is seven years ago.

“Bran,” Jon follows her train of thought, “Sansa’s been in the Vale.”

“No, well, yes, obviously,” Bran says, “But she was supposed to be in King’s Landing, now.” He turns to her, looks at her with large, imploring eyes, as if he’s five, and wishes to share her apple tart. “Sansa, Dany was so excited about you joining her court. She kept talking about it in her letters, and then we just got one that said you’d disappeared and…” He pauses when Jon reaches right past him to grab the little scroll. Bran, his voice squeaking, tells him to stop, but Lord Reed just chuckles and pulls Sansa out a chair before returning to his own while Jon reads.

“The two of you’s pet names for each other are terrible.” Jon says grumpily. But as he reads a frown grows. “You ran away from King’s Landing in the middle of the night?”

“The Queen had started speaking about marriage,” Sansa says, hoping he will understand though if Bran and the woman have pet names for each other, and Jon is a man and bastard besides, he probably will not.

Jon glances at Bran, who suddenly looks very very guilty, like when mother use to catch him climbing. She does not know Lord Reed, but she would hazard a guess that he looks guilty too.

“Who did she mean to betroth you to?” He asks.

“The Prince.” Sansa says.

The air seems to rush out of the room, and Jon’s frown of confusion becomes anger. He glares at Bran who just stares back, head held high, meeting his eyes in challenge.

“Lady Sansa,” Lord Reed says, “I believe you are a great deal like your Aunt Lyanna.”

Sansa blinks at him. Arya was always the one always compared to Lyanna. She was the one who liked to ride, who looked like father.

“That,” Jon says, and he’s shaking with rage now, something she has never seen in him before, “is a terrible thing to say to the lady, given Lady Lyanna’s fate of kidnapping, rape, and death.” He spat out. “I assure you, My Lady, you will not be forced to marry him.” He bows, as stiff and formal as she’s even seen, and then leaves the room without Bran’s leave.

When the door slams shut behind him, Lord Reed sighs, “Very like your Uncle Brandon, too, I think.” Then he turns to Sansa, “No one is going to make you marry anyone, My Lady.” He says, “Never think that. But I’ll admit we had thought the betrothal made since. Your father intended you for a Prince once.”

The thought of Joffrey makes her feel sick.

“He meant to betroth me to the son of a friend.” She says, someone brave and gentle and strong, he had promised once, but such things were lost to her. “Not an enemy.” She looks at Lord Reed, “You seem to have known my Aunt Lyanna. Like my brother said, you know what happened to her, what the Targaryens did to her. What Rhaegar did to her?”

“Dany’s not like that.” Bran says, quickly, defensive. “She smart and kind and beautiful and …”

“I’ve met her many times, and she is perfectly lovely,” Sansa agrees, with some distance, and without the threat, Sansa things she even likes the woman. “I but her nephew is the son of Rhaegar Targaryen.”

Bran, if anything, seems more defensive, “He would never, and just because Mother, or stupid southerners or other people think he’s bad doesn’t mean they’re right.”

“Bran,” Lord Reed says, and lays a hand down on his shoulder. He looks at Sansa with those shrewd eyes, again. “Perhaps, Lady Sansa, we should have a talk about the Prince, and your Aunt Lyanna, and your father. I believe there is some information you are missing.

***

Jon is not in his chambers when she searches for him, nor in the great hall, the armory, or the godswood.

It’s Ghost, his great wolf, still as silent as the dead and white as snow, who leads her down into the crypts.

Jon is at the ends of the Stark ancestors, near a string of statues that Sansa has never seen past Grandfather, Uncle Brandon and Aunt Lyanna.

Jon’s muttering, and as she joins him, she realizes not at himself, but at the statue, murmuring apologies and promises of protection. Protection for her.

“It looks like you,” Sansa says, and then regrets it, because what a thing to say, you favor the dead man who is not your father.

“The carver never actually saw him,” Jon says, quietly, “Lord Reed and Lord Umber suggested they use me as a reference instead. It feels like a mockery, it is a mockery, but Arya begged me.”

Sansa just stands beside him. There are fresh flowers on Aunt Lyanna’s statue next to Father.

“The Eyrie is up a Mountain.” Sansa says.

“I know,” Jon says, “Father, your father, always made it sound beautiful.”

“It is,” Sansa agrees, “and maybe it was different when he was there as a boy, but now, Petyr Baelish runs a tight court, and information does not always get in and out as it needs too.” Jon clearly does not understand, so she elaborates, “I because of this, I did not actually know some very interesting pieces of information until today.”

That, at least, causes him to look at her.

“For example, I had no idea my brother had magical powers granted to him by a tree wizard, or that my sister had married a Dornish lord. I had no idea that my brother and sister where in on a plot to marry me to a Prince, and that apparently they had the blessing of both my father’s oldest friend and my mother’s brother, but no one told me because they thought I might be insane because I was living under an assumed identity.”

“I’m so sorry,” Jon says, “I had no idea. I’m writing to Dany this evening about it.” He was so solunm, “It is absolutely ridiculous that they all did this to you.”

“Did you really want to marry Alayne Stone?” She asks, instead of responding to him.

“When I didn’t know she was you,” He answers honestly. “I would never have presume that…”

“That I’d want to marry you?”

“Of course or that your family would think it in anyway a suitable match.”

“Very few people would think a prince is not a suitable match,” She says. “And clearly my family does. Twice over.”

“You don’t.” Jon says, “And your opinion matter considerably more than that of your younger siblings.”

“Not when my younger siblings are a lord paramount and the wife of a powerful lord.” Sansa says, “but I also learned something else today, something that I did not know when I was first told of the Queen’s marriage plans.”

“What?”

“Who I was marrying.” She says, with a little laugh, “I had been under a mistaken impression that Queen Daenerys wanted me marry a stranger.”

“She didn’t tell you she wanted you to marry me.”

“She told me she wanted me to marry her nephew, the prince.” Sansa says, “We don’t get the the news in the Vale.” She smiles, “That her nephew was the Jon Snow I’ve known my entire life, who I played in the godswood and crypts with, did not come up.”

“You didn’t know it was me?”

“Jon, I ran when I thought I’d have to meet Lady Dayne. If I’d known it was Arya, I’d have been in the welcoming party. I’d have run out to the boat. I have spent so long alone.” She could feel tears welling in her eyes. When one of them dripped down her cheek, he reached out a hand and wiped it away, the calluses meeting her skin, still chapped from her ride. She likes the bite of it.

“Sansa,” He whispers, “You deserve…”

“No,” She cut him off, “No, Jon, if you don’t want to marry me, because I was your least favorite sibling. Or because I remind you of my mother. Or because I’ve turned ugly and hard. Or you just don’t want too, that’s fine, but you can’t pretend it's about me and not you. Because I’d be happy to marry you.”

He stares for a long time, “You aren’t ugly and hard, you’re beautiful.” He says, finally, his finger is still resting on her face, but now he turns his hand to cup her cheek. “You want to marry me?”

She worries she’s given too much away then, but it is too late. “Yes. But it isn’t just about what I want.”

“I’ve wanted to marry the woman with the skill and the strength to keep the North fed and warm through the night for several years now.” He says. His hand still rests on her cheek, and the caress of his fingers is everything she’s ever dreamed of. “And I have never seen a more beautiful site then the inn door opening, and you being on the other side.”

So she reaches out to him. She pulls him to her; buy his arm and his cloak. And she kisses him like she’s always wanted to kiss her betrothed. A handsome prince. A hero. A man who is brave and gentle and strong.

“What should I write my aunt?” He asks, when he pulls away, the torches play off his face in the most pleasing way. It should feel wrong, she thinks, kissing him in front of the bones of her family, but it feels right. This is a place where Starks rest, this is where their history lies. And they can see what is to come, the future. Princes named Robb and Brandon and Eddard, daughters that look like their grandmothers.

“Tell her that you are to be wed.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my [tumblr](http://darkmagyk.tumblr.com/).


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